


it's a cruel world

by ilikeyougreenie



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Booker Will Give Him One, Booker | Sebastian le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Friendship, Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Needs a Hug, M/M, Nicky Is a Ghost, Permanent Character Death, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, see notes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikeyougreenie/pseuds/ilikeyougreenie
Summary: Their bodies are riddled with bullets, stretched out prone on a floor that is glossy and slick with blood. Nicky can hear shells dropping onto the floor, overlaid by the sound of their attackers murmuring to one another. No doubt congratulating one another on a job well done. Nicky wasn’t particularly interested in what they were saying, he was too busy considering the fact that he could hear what they were saying. He should really be dead right now. Like, properly dead. Halfway to healing and regenerating, but still unable to hear and see type dead.or - nicky dies in south sudan, and wakes up a ghost.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 48
Kudos: 158





	1. one | it's a cruel world

**Author's Note:**

> this...this is something that absolutely nobody asked for except myself. i'm playing fast and loose with ghost physiology etc. and kinda just making things up as i go along. i hope it still makes sense, lmao.   
> title & chapter title from cruel world by active child. that song makes me so emotional, because of the scene it's used in in the film. redemption for booker, pls! 
> 
> trigger warning (and spoiler):   
> there is an instance of attempted suicide in this opening chapter. joe is overcome with grief and kills himself in the hope that he will die and join nicky. however, he does regenerate and does not stay dead. if this is potentially triggering to you, please do not read it. keep yourself safe. <3

Nicolò di Genova knew what it felt like to die.

He has died more times than anyone could possibly hope to remember, in a multitude of ways. He just can’t figure out why it feels so _different_ this time.

Their bodies are riddled with bullets, stretched out prone on a floor that is glossy and slick with blood. Nicky can hear shells dropping onto the floor, overlaid by the sound of their attackers murmuring to one another. No doubt congratulating one another on a job well done. Nicky wasn’t particularly interested in what they were saying, he was too busy considering the fact that he _could_ hear what they were saying. He should really be dead right now. Like, properly dead. Halfway to healing and regenerating, but still unable to hear and see type dead.

So, that was strange. Maybe he’d just skipped that part and was healing spectacularly fast. Yes, Nicky decided, that’s it. Only, when he tried to zero in on the healing sensation - the tug and sting as bullets were forced out of flesh that was knitting itself back together – he felt nothing. Literally nothing. No pain, no discomfort. Just, well, _nothing_.

He could sense the others slowly returning. He couldn’t see Joe or Booker past Andy’s body, but he could sense the fact that their breathing had kicked back in, and that their wounds were spitting out bullets as they began to close. He watched Andy’s fingers curl around the familiar bulk of her gun, labrys still tucked neatly onto her back even as she began to shift.

Joe rose and looked over at him then, splattered with blood but still effortlessly beautiful. His brow furrowed in confusion, and Nicky longed to move, to reassure him, to reciprocate. But he couldn’t.

This shit was just getting annoying now. Nicky couldn’t understand why he couldn’t feel anything. Unless of course –

His train of thought was interrupted by the three other immortals rising and throwing themselves into action. Nicky caught sight of Joe crossing in front of Andy to cover him, sparing him a look that was bathed in both confusion and dread.

“Why the fuck isn’t he waking up?” Joe shouted, firing a few rounds into one of their attackers before pulling out his sword and plunging it into the stomach of another. “Nicky? _Nicolò_?”

Nicky longed to respond, tried his hardest to open his fucking mouth and get _something_ out, but nothing came. Not even breath.

He tried not to panic, for all the good that would do him now. He concentrated on the sounds of his team dealing efficiently with their attackers, bodies dropping beyond his field of vision. He homed in on the Joe; the tell-tale sound of his scimitar cutting through the air, of his boots against the floor. Nicky would know him in death. Nicky _does_ know him in death.

_'Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?_ ' Nicky thinks to himself. Death. He’s dead. Properly dead. Not coming back this time. His immortality has left him and he, in turn, has left his life. Has left the team. Has left Joe.

If he is dead, which Nicky is almost positive that he is, then why can he still see and hear? That, he cannot understand, although he supposes that he has never been properly dead before, so perhaps this is what it is like?

Merda, he doesn’t even want to consider the possibility, but is he a _ghost_?

This was certainly not the kind of afterlife he had ever imagined, nor been told existed.

Nicky’s line of thinking is interrupted by a terrible sound; a guttural, animalistic wail that pushes its way out of Joe’s throat. The man drops to his knees beside Nicky’s body, hands coming to rest against his jaw ever so gently.

“Nicolò?” He whispers brokenly, his fingertips barely brushing Nicky’s cheekbones. “Nicolò, destati. Destati, please, Nicolò-” Joe shakes his head, his body curling over Nicky’s as he presses their foreheads together. “You said we’d go together,” Joe cries, hot tears spilling onto Nicky’s cheeks. “You promised me, habibi. I don’t – I can’t do this without you.”

Andy and Booker stand just behind Joe, at the edge of Nicky’s eyeline. They are pressed together shoulder to shoulder, their hands clutched between them in a display of solidarity and strength. Andy’s eyes are wet, her other hand pressed against her mouth. Booker just looks numb.

Looking at them is bad enough, but it’s better than looking at Joe. Nicky can’t close his eyes, can’t do anything to escape the sight of Joe bent over him, clutching at his clothes, begging him to just wake up. He can’t do that. He – he just can’t.

Nicky doesn’t know how long Joe cries over him, how long it takes for his tears to run dry and for his throat to turn to sandpaper. He eventually just collapses, so exhausted in his grief, and that is when Andy and Booker move forward. Andy crouches beside him, a warm, forgiving hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“Come on,” She says softly. “We’ve got to go.”

Joe looks up at her, his eyes liquid and distraught. She has never seen him like this before; and no wonder. He and Nicky have had each other for almost a thousand years. The other half of his soul; his moon; his warmth; his everything, has been torn from him in the space of a single breath.

“I can’t leave him,” Joe shook his head, his fingers curling into the fabric of Nicky’s shirt. “Andy, I can’t.”

“Joe,” Andy said quietly, shaking her head. “I’m not asking you to. There’s no way I’d leave him here, either. We’re taking him with us.”

Booker had busied himself with removing Nicky’s weapons from his body, carefully tucking Nicky’s sword into his own belt. Nicky watched Booker’s expression closely; he was closed off, devoid of any discernible emotion beyond a faint glitter in his eye that spoke of unshed tears. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Guys,” He said. “We should – we should really get going.”

Nicky watched, helpless, as Joe scooped his body up, cradling it against his chest with great care and precision. It didn’t matter now, of course. Nicky couldn’t feel much of anything either way. But it comforted him nonetheless, in this strange, unfeeling beyond.

Andy led the way out of the bunker, labrys hanging from her hand, while Booker took up the rear, his gun clasped firmly in his fist. Nicky couldn’t see much of anything anymore; his head was cradled against Joe’s shoulder, immobile. He could feel a slight pressure against his skin where Joe held him, but the sensation was weak, almost muffled. It was strange and disconcerting, and Nicky didn’t like it. It was unfair that Joe’s touch – a touch that could render him weak, breathless, wanting, adoring – was so muted to him now.

The trek back across the compound was quiet. The guards had all been dealt with and the place was deserted, allowing the team a smooth, uninterrupted journey back through the fence. It was just starting to get light, the sky fading to inky blue as it does before the sun crawls her way beyond the horizon. Nicky remembered that they’d left some bags – clean clothes, passports – beyond the perimeter, and estimated that was why they’d paused for a moment.

“Are you okay, Joe? Can I – do you want me to take him for a while?” Booker asked gently, beyond Nicky’s line of vision but still nearby. Joe shook his head firmly, his grip tightening on Nicky’s body.

“No. Thank you, Booker, but I’m fine.” Joe replied, his voice wobbling slightly. Booker gave a resigned sigh, swinging one of their bags onto his back and continuing onwards, leading the way now towards a secluded desert area they’d scouted earlier. Andy dropped back, walking in step with Joe and allowing Booker the lead. Nicky could just see her past Joe’s shoulder, enough to catch the concerned glance she sent Joe’s way. She didn’t speak, however; she knew better than to try.

* * *

Joe wasn’t entirely sure how he was still functioning.

He’d known something was wrong from the minute he’d sat up and looked over at Nicky to find his gaze cold and, for want of a better word, dead. It had been second nature to cross in front of Andy and cover Nicky; he’d been doing so for the better part of nine hundred years. His intention was only to cover Nicky until he’d recovered enough to get back on his feet, but that didn’t happen.

It would never happen again.

Joe knew about Lykon. He knew it was possible for them to lose their immortality, and he knew they likely _would_ one day. He just didn’t expect it to happen to them separately, so soon and so suddenly.

He was sure it hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Half of him – the irrational half – was expecting Nicky to breathe; to blink and look upon Joe like he is the sun. But the other half – the rational half – knew that Nicky was dead and would never turn his gaze upon Joe again. The golden, liquid warmth of his gaze is now dead and cold and bores into Joe’s chest because he couldn’t bear to draw Nicky’s eyelids closed just yet.

Nicky’s body is freezing where it presses against Joe’s skin, but he wouldn’t relinquish that contact for the world. He couldn’t; not for fear of Nicky disappearing before his very eyes, slipping through his fingers like ash. Life may not breathe in that body any longer, but that does not mean that Joe will not seek comfort in that familiar skin, nor breathe in the scent of the man he has loved for millennia and will love for many more.

They had so much time, and yet so little.

Joe’s vision is blurry, with unshed tears or unbearable heartache, he is not sure. He continues onward, refusing to look at Andy where she walks beside him, despite the worried glances she shoots him every now and then. He can’t, for fear he will break down beneath her gaze. She knows what it is like to lose someone; she and Booker both do. That does not offer Joe any comfort, however. How could it? His grief is his own, and it has ripped a gaping maw in his chest, has eviscerated one half of his soul. The incision was not perfect nor precise; he and Nicky were so entangled with one another, that even they had no idea where one ended and the other began.

This loss aches in Joe’s very bones. He keeps moving, though he has no idea how.

They finally reach the area they had scouted earlier; a quiet dip between desert dunes, scattered with rocks that will bury their sins and maybe a body. The prospect of having to bury Nicky here, miles away from anywhere, anything, or _anyone_ he could call home, pulls an unbidden sob from Joe’s throat.

Booker pauses halfway down the dune, turning to Joe in alarm. Andy presses her hand between Joe’s shoulder blades, and that is when he collapses.

He sinks to his knees in the sand, holding Nicky’s body close to his chest, and cries for his loss. He has never felt so much pain; a pain so visceral and real that it makes his head spin. He cradles the back of Nicky’s head with one hand, hair matted with blood, and cries harder for the marks that have been left on his body. Joe cannot give Nicky what he deserves; cannot clean his body with gentle fingertips, cannot wipe away the blood and the viscera that streak his skin and do so at the hands of another.

“Joe,” Andy says gently, her voice thick with emotion. Her hand is curled around Nicky’s arm, fingers grazing the edge of a bullet hole that tore through his shirt and through his skin. “We have to – we can get him changed, at least. If you want.”

Joe blinks, his gaze sweeping over Nicky’s body. He’s still dressed in his tac gear, of course, streaked with all manner of dried substances and ripped in places. He cannot leave Nicky like this.

“Yes,” Joe nods. “Please, yes. I can’t – I can’t bury him like this.” His voice cracks, but he is not ashamed. He digs his feet into the sand and stands, Nicky’s body cradled gently in his arms once again. He continues down to the bottom of the dune, where it dips into a trench scattered with rocks. It is there that he finally relinquishes his grip on Nicky’s body, laying him down gently on the sand.

He is dimly aware of Booker rifling through one of the bags and handing him a pile of fresh, clean clothes. They are of no use to Nicky now, but Joe refuses to leave and bury him in these torn, dirty rags. This is all he has to give Nicky now; it is not the burial he deserves, but it is the best Joe can do for now.

Joe’s teeth sink into his lower lip as he undresses Nicky perfunctorily but gently, fingertips brushing over wounds that have not healed. He cannot afford Nicky’s body the worship he would usually lave upon it; not now, and not in this condition. He can hardly bear to look at Nicky’s skin, so bloodied and mottled and ruined as it is. He is still beautiful – of course he is, he is breath-taking, he steals Joe’s breath and has done so for the last nine hundred years – but his beauty has been marred by hands that Joe wishes he’d had the wherewithal to break. Hands that have cruelly stolen Nicky from him, that have hacked away at Joe’s soul and left but a fragment behind.

Andy and Booker had busied themselves with a shovel and Andy’s labrys, forming the best makeshift grave they could offer. They both agreed, without words, that Nicky deserved better than this, but this was all they could give him now. They had to find Copley, they had to understand the situation they were in, and they couldn’t take Nicky along with them. It was inevitable, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

“Guys?” Joe said softly, punctuated by a sniff. “I’m – I’m done.”

Andy set her labrys aside, turning to find Joe knelt by Nicky’s body. His clothes were clean, as was his face; Joe had clearly used some of their water to at least wash a little of the blood from Nicky’s skin. She didn’t grudge him that in the slightest, and she knew Booker wouldn’t either.

Booker crossed the sand to Joe’s side, crouching next to him and laying a warm hand on his forearm. “You ready?” He asked, and Joe’s eyelashes fluttered.

“I will never be ready to say goodbye to him,” Joe whispered. “This is – he deserves so much better than this.”

Booker swallowed, nodding. “I know, Joe. I know. But we’re doing the best we can. And we’ll do it together, alright?”

Joe nodded, sliding his hand over Booker’s and squeezing his fingers, drawing strength from the contact. “Together.” He said quietly, barely a breath in the wind. The sky was lighter now: a pale, unassuming blue. The sun hid behind the clouds as though it feared to shine. Joe understood; how could it shine in a world without Nicolò di Genova. He certainly cannot.

Joe slipped his arms beneath Nicky’s body, carrying him carefully to the gravesite that Andy and Booker had prepared. It was fairly deep – as deep as they could get it with what limited time and tools they had – and Joe had to kneel to lower Nicky’s body into it. An unbidden sob escaped him at the sight, and he clapped one hand over his mouth as the other caressed Nicky’s face, finally drawing his eyelids closed. Joe savoured the sensation; Nicky’s soft skin against his palm, the slight brush of his eyelashes that were reminiscent of butterfly kisses in the early hours, bathed in soft golden sunlight that was once not afraid to shine.

He leaned forward, pressing one last kiss to Nicky’s forehead as he murmured a sweet-tongued confession of undying, unending, unequivocal love. “Nicolò, habibi, I will see you soon. Wait for me.” He whispered, brushing his nose along the edge of Nicky’s as he drew back. He rocked onto his heels for a moment, allowing Andy and Booker time to say their own goodbyes, rushed as they may be.

Joe did everything he could to maintain some semblance of composure, as Booker began to shovel sand on top of Nicky’s body. He recited the requisite prayers – the Salat al-Janazah – and dug his nails into his palms all the while, drawing blood from wounds that closed within seconds. It wasn’t long before Nicky’s body was completely hidden from view, covered completely in sand and dirt and stones.

They stood for a few more minutes, in silence that was weighted with the death of one of their own. Joe was the first to turn away, crouching beside the cluster of bags where he'd left his own clean clothes; a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that was intended for Nicky. Booker had handed him a pile of their clothes, mixed up and piled together, as they also were. Joe had swapped their clothes deliberately, needing to surround himself with Nicky’s scent and commit it further to memory before time left it behind like it did everything else.

Andy and Booker busied themselves with their own belongings; Booker changed his dusty, stained clothes while Andy cleaned off the blade of her labrys. They were so absorbed in their own activities that neither of them noticed Joe lifting Nicky’s sword, admiring the way the blade reflected the pale expanse of the morning sky.

A sick, wet sound followed by a sharp gasp drew their attention, and they both looked up to find Nicky’s sword buried deep in Joe’s chest. Andy gritted her teeth, dropping her labrys into the sand and hurrying to Joe’s side as a dark stain blossomed across his shirt.

“Joe-” She began, pausing as the man in question shook his head.

“Don’t ask me why,” He said, his eyelids fluttering closed. “You know why.”

Joe’s grip on the hilt of the sword loosened gradually, until his hands fell away entirely. Booker gritted his teeth as Andy’s hands replaced Joe’s, pulling the sword backwards out of his chest. The blade was stained a dark, angry red, and Andy hastened to wipe it off on the same cloth she’d been using for her labrys.

Booker stood over Joe’s body, watching carefully for the tell-tale signs of regeneration; the wound stitching itself closed, the rise and fall of a chest. Both came within seconds of one another, along with a guttural cry of anguish that Joe struggled to withhold.

“Why?!” He cried, curling one of his hands into a fist and slamming it against the still-healing wound on his chest. “Why, why, why, why-”

Booker dropped to his knees beside Joe, catching his hand in mid-air and slotting his fingers through Joe’s own. There was little he could say, little he could do but hold Joe and give him whatever strength he could.

So he did.

* * *

Nicky had discovered that, since being buried, he could move around outside of his body. He couldn’t be seen or heard; he was entirely sure how corporeal he really was, if at all. Plus, if he was dead and now, god forbid, a ghost, he was likely to inhabit an entirely different plain of existence from those still living. Right?

Nicky had no idea. Ghosts were never something he’d given much thought to, before. He’d never thought he’d end up as one. Mio dio, he felt ridiculous even entertaining the prospect, but what else could he do?

He’d half expected to be tied to wherever his body was, but he’d been slowly testing his new abilities and found himself without any immediate boundaries. He didn’t exactly know what he was supposed to do now, or why he was still hanging around in this ghost-like state. He didn’t have any unfinished business that he knew of, save for the fact that the other half of his soul was still living while he was, it seemed, very much dead.

Nicky shook his head, drifting back down the dune. He’d stood at the top of it for a moment, surveying the landscape and trying to get his bearings, before realising that he didn’t really have to do that anymore. He could, he assumed, just follow Joe around, well, forever. Or at least until he passed on from this purgatory that he seemed to have ended up in.

Speaking of Joe, Nicky noticed the way that he was looking at the line of his sword. He longed for Andy or Booker to intervene before the inevitable, but they were both engrossed in their own respective tasks. He tread lightly across the sand, leaving no footprints behind as he approached Joe and sat down by his side. His body left no imprint in the sand, even as he drew his knees up beneath his chin.

“Joe,” Nicky said softly, reaching for his lover with hands that could no longer touch. “Yusuf, mio tesoro, please don’t do it.” His fingertips brushed against the inside of Joe’s wrist, skittering over his pulse point. Nicky tried to close his fingers around the delicate bone, but to no avail. He felt weak, as though he couldn’t summon enough strength to even grip Joe’s wrist.

Joe didn’t move; his hold on the sword’s hilt remained firm. A sob wrestled its way out of Nicky’s throat as Joe drove the sword into his chest, his expression entirely impassive as he did so.

As painful as it was to watch Joe fall apart by Nicky’s sword, a small part of him wished that Joe wouldn’t wake up. That he too would die, prematurely, and find himself by Nicky’s side once again.

But the universe had other plans. They’d had their lifetime together – more than their fair share, it seemed.

Nicky watched as Andy pulled the sword from Joe’s chest, mere seconds before breath flooded his lungs again. Joe’s cry of anguish was like nothing Nicky had ever heard, and the sheer pain in it made his heart break tenfold.

“Mio dio,” Nicky wept, tucking his head between his knees. “Why must you hurt him like this?”

He received no answer.


	2. two | we die alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Joe that Nicky was particularly concerned about; had been, for the last nine hundred years. He was curled up on his own, arms folded over his chest. He looked exhausted; the bags under his eyes were dark, and there was still blood crusted underneath his fingernails. Nicky wanted nothing more than to tuck himself into Joe’s arms, but he knew that the pain of not being able to feel him would be infinitely worse than what he was experiencing right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helllooooo! thank you all so much for your positive feedback on the first chapter! all of the comments and kudos mean the world to me. <3 this chapter might be a little slow, but we'll start moving a bit quicker once nile arrives! chapter title from born alone die alone by madalen duke. 
> 
> i just want to give a quick tw for this chapter. there is what could be described as a panic attack/panic spiral in this one. i think it's quite mild, but if you'd rather not read it then please don't hesitate to skip it! stop at 'god, he was everywhere and nowhere all at once.' and resume again at '"yeah," booker sighed, his words trembling slightly.' that should cover the section - it is quite short but i just want everyone to be safe! 
> 
> also, joe & booker friendship for the win! <3

It had taken a while – understandably so – but Andy and Booker had finally managed to get Joe onto his feet and into clean clothes. They’d made it onto a nearby train, curled up in one of the latter cargo carriages. Despite the loss that hung over them like a pall, they had to keep moving. Copley knew now what they were; they had no guarantee of what he would do with that knowledge.

The long-term objective was to get to their chosen safehouse: an abandoned church just outside Paris. For now, however, Andy had instructed Booker and Joe to try and get some sleep. God knew they all needed it.

Joe lay on his side, curled in on himself protectively. His arms felt empty without Nicky’s familiar warmth and weight. He’d grown so accustomed to pressing himself against Nicky as they slept; to curling his arms around Nicky’s chest and burying his nose in the nape of Nicky’s neck. He had, for the last 900 years, been surrounded by Nicky so entirely that he now felt exposed, naked, and vulnerable without him.

Booker sat just behind Joe, propped upright against a pile of wooden pallets, while Andy sat on the opposite side of the carriage. Both of them had, by unspoken agreement, assumed watchful positions over Joe. They had experienced loss; they knew all too well what it was like to lose someone you loved. That’s not to say that Joe hadn’t experienced it before; there had been many people he had loved and lost over the years, Quynh being one of them. But Nicky was different. Nicky was more.

Joe fell asleep quicker than he had expected, no doubt due to sheer exhaustion. His sleep was fitful and restless, his fingers jerking and tapping against his forearm. Images flashed through his mind _; an older woman in a hijab, a young black woman in fatigues, a knife slitting a throat, a spurt of blood, red hot and angry as it splattered across her uniform, across a nametag that read-_

“Free – Free something,” Joe said, scrubbing a hand over his face before scribbling that particular detail in his notebook. His mind was awash with images from the dream, hazy and liquid but present, nonetheless. He wrote down a few notes on one page, before starting work on a sketch on the opposite side. He could still see her; so young, so new, and so _afraid_.

“I felt her die.” Booker said hoarsely, rubbing a hand over his own neck. Joe could sympathise; the ghostly sensation of death that lingered after these types of dreams was disturbing to say the least. He could still remember the first time he had ever dreamt of Nicky; specifically, the searing pain that burned in his gut for hours even after he woke up. When they finally made one another’s acquaintance, when Joe had run his scimitar through Nicky’s stomach and watched him die, well, that was when he understood.

“She’s a marine,” Andy interrupted, staring at her hands. “Combat. Or near combat duty. Afghanistan. It’s been over 200 years. Why _now_?” She sighed, rubbing her hands over her face and through her hair before lacing them at her nape. Her head hung low, chin touching her chest. Joe could sense her discontent, her anger, but mostly her fear. It was visible in the taut line of her body, in the sharp set of her jaw, in the almost imperceptible shake of her fingertips. She was terrified.

“Everything happens for a reason, Boss,” Joe said lightly, concentrating on getting the shape of the woman’s face right. “We have to find her.”

Booker grunted his disagreement, shaking his head. “No. We stick to the plan, we find Copley-”

“So we just leave her out in the open?” Joe cocked his head a little as he looked over at Booker. He looked less scared and more just exhausted. But Booker had looked like that for 200 years. It made Joe’s chest ache.

“No,” Booker muttered, gaze flickering up to meet Joe’s momentarily. “No, we’re in the open. We’re the ones that are exposed now.”

Joe huffed a humourless laugh, shading the edges of the woman’s braids. “Maybe. But she needs us, Booker. You can’t tell me that you don’t remember what it’s like. To feel so alone, so helpless and afraid. We’re all she has. We can’t just abandon her.”

Booker’s jaw was tight, and he refused to meet Joe’s gaze. He looked over at Andy instead, who was staring at the floor beneath her feet. “I’ll handle the retrieval.” She said, her words finite. She stood, swinging her pack over her shoulder as she did so.

“Hey, boss. C’mon-” Booker began to protest, but Andy silenced him with a look.

“If we’re dreaming about her, she’s dreaming about us,” She said. “That makes her a beacon straight to us.”

The implications of those words were not something any of them wanted to even consider.

“What do we do in the meantime?” Booker asked, gesturing between himself and Joe. It appeared as though he was now resigned to this new plan, despite his initial hesitance. Andy had that effect on people; Joe could testify to that, having spent almost a millennium in her company.

“Get to France,” Andy instructed. “Use the Charlie safehouse. I’ll meet you there. Find Copley.”

Booker nodded, rubbing his palms over his jeans. Joe added a few final details to his sketch before ripping the page out and handing it up to Andy. Her expression softened slightly as she took it, before hardening into Andromache the Scythian once more.

“Jesus,” She muttered, turning on her heel towards the carriage door. “She’s just a baby.”

Andy tucked the drawing away into her pocket, pulling open the rolling door. A great expanse of desert stretched out before her, beyond the curve of the train track. In one smooth movement, she jumped out and began walking, not once looking back.

“Well,” Booker sighed, pulling one of his legs up and resting his chin on his knee. “Just you and me now, Joe.”

“Yeah,” Joe chuckled softly, the corner of his mouth tipping upwards. “Lucky you.”

Booker’s responding laugh was quiet, but genuine, nonetheless.

* * *

Joe and Booker, after a great many hours and a great many different forms of transport, finally arrived at the safehouse in Goussainville. They hadn’t used it for a while, and the doorhandle was rusted beyond recognition. It took a good, firm kick from Booker, along with a promise to fix it later, to get them inside.

Nothing much had changed inside, of course. The pews were still shrouded in white cloth, various artefacts dotted around the main hall of the church. In the back was where the living quarters were; or what constituted as such, anyway. Three rooms – kitchen, living area, bedroom – and a cluttered assortment of belongings they’d collected over the years.

Joe, to his credit, felt as though he’d been holding up okay, all things considered. The Goussainville safehouse, however, was enough to shatter that thinly veiled illusion.

Nicky was _everywhere_ , here.

Joe could easily pick out numerous items that belonged to him; the longsword tucked into the umbrella rack beside the door; a wordy, leather-bound tome on the coffee table; a khaki coloured jacket draped over the bedframe.

God, he was everywhere and nowhere all at once. It made Joe’s head spin.

He dropped onto the sofa, the aged leather creaking beneath his weight. He buried his head in his hands and tried to just breathe for a moment. Every time he came close, however, he’d remember a time, post-mission, a handful of years ago, when Nicky had sat on this very couch and just _existed_.

“Fuck,” Joe gasped into his hands, digging his nails into his scalp. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -”

Every breath felt like too much and not enough at the same time. His chest felt as though it had been carved open; red raw and bloody where his heart had been ripped in two.

“Hey,” Booker said quietly, taking a seat next to Joe and placing a cool, gentle hand at his nape. “Hey, you’re alright. Deep breaths, Joe. Match with me, in and out, that’s it.” Booker’s voice was soft yet commanding, his breaths loud and even. Joe tried to concentrate on the sound, tried to emulate it, but he – he just couldn’t.

“Seb-” He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel Booker’s fingertips against his skin and tried to weigh in on the points of contact. Booker’s thumb and forefinger curled around his wrist gently, drawing one hand away from his hair and into his lap. Booker slid his fingers between Joe’s own, squeezing his hand in time with his measured breaths.

“I’ve got you,” Booker murmured, resting his forehead against Joe’s shoulder as his breaths began to even out, slowly but surely. “I’ve got you, Joe. It’s okay.”

Joe shook his head, cheeks wet with tears that dripped down into the neckline of his shirt. “It’s not okay, Seb. He’s gone. Really gone, this time. Gone as in never coming back.”

“Yeah,” Booker sighed, his words trembling slightly. He was Nicky’s friend too, Joe fathomed. It made sense. “Yeah, he is. And I know it seems like it’s not okay. It feels like things will never be okay again. And maybe they won’t be. But it is what it is, Joe,” Booker gave Joe’s hand a solid squeeze. “It is what it is. We have to make the most of whatever _it_ is. Even without Nicky.”

“I never thought I’d have to live without him,” Joe said quietly, wiping at his eyes even as fresh tears dripped down his cheeks. “If this is what you’ve been going through for the last 200 years?” He snorted, shaking his head. “I really don’t know how you’ve managed.”

Booker chuckled, reaching into his pocket and digging out his hipflask. “A lot of this,” He joked, popping the lid before taking a quick, tremorous sip. “No, but really,” He said, slipping the flask out of sight again. “It wasn’t easy. I still miss them like nothing else. But I had you, and Nicky, and Andy. I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t feel alone, but I felt less so when I was with all of you,” He explained, tapping the back of Joe’s hand with his thumb. “You’re not alone, Joe. You’ve got me, and Andy, and whoever this new immortal is. We’ve got you.”

Joe shot Booker a watery smile, leaning forward a little to press their foreheads together for a fleeting moment. “Thank you, Seb. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

* * *

This whole being a ghost shit was _really_ getting on Nicky’s nerves.

He’d followed the group through the desert and onto the train, trailing behind them and watching the way his feet didn’t even make an imprint in the sand. It was disturbing, to say the least. He could touch things, but he couldn’t feel them, or make any impact upon them. He’d had to slip past Andy to get inside the carriage before she pulled the door shut, otherwise he would’ve been stuck outside with no way of opening the door of his own accord.

Nicky felt like a spare part, hovering uselessly in the middle of the floor as Andy, Booker, and Joe split off to their own corners of the carriage. Booker was propped up against a pile of palettes, his fingers trembling slightly where they curled around his trusty hipflask. Nicky watched as a took a sip, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he tucked it away out of sight again.

Andy was leaning against the side of the carriage, one leg thrust out in front of her. She rested her chin on her other knee, staring sightlessly at the floor. She occasionally looked over at Joe and Booker, her gaze vacant, as though she was just taking stock of their presence and nothing more.

It was Joe that Nicky was particularly concerned about; had been, for the last nine hundred years. He was curled up on his own, arms folded over his chest. He looked exhausted; the bags under his eyes were dark, and there was still blood crusted underneath his fingernails. Nicky wanted nothing more than to tuck himself into Joe’s arms, but he knew that the pain of not being able to _feel_ him would be infinitely worse than what he was experiencing right now.

He sat down next to Joe instead, drawing his knees up towards his chest. He concentrated on the steady rise and fall of Joe’s chest, the slow draw of his breaths as he finally sank into sleep. Nicky reached out with one hand, resting it atop Joe’s head and trying to bury his fingertips into those curls he loved so much. It was fruitless; his hand just slipped through Joe’s body, leaving him cold and aching for contact.

An agonized groan crawled out of his chest, and Nicky wound his arms around his own legs as he buried his face into his knees again. This was becoming a default position for him. Even though no one could _see_ him, he still felt the need to hide his grief from the world.

He knew that he had been relatively lucky; in his long life, he hadn’t experienced great loss like Andy and Booker had. He’d had Joe for the entirety of his immortal life.

He had nothing now. Nothing, no one. Not even a goodbye. That was what hurt the most.

* * *

Following the startling revelation that there was a new immortal, and Andy’s subsequent departure to find her, Joe and Booker sat in silence. Nicky still hovered at Joe’s shoulder as the man dozed; he was sitting upright now, but his head drooped every so often. What Nicky wouldn’t give to bundle him up and steal him away somewhere private, where he could just _rest_.

He gave a humourless chuckle. Wouldn’t be doing that anymore, would he?

Joe and Booker only exchanged a few words throughout their journey to the safehouse. They didn’t seem to care much for small talk; what was there to say, after all? Booker took an occasional pull from his hipflask as they headed through Goussainville, walking shoulder to shoulder with Joe down the pavement towards the overgrown church and graveyard. As the pair headed inside, Nicky hung back between the headstones, wandering through the rows of abandoned graves. Each one was marked with a name, a set of dates, and some kind of small obituary. Nicky knelt beside one at the end of a row; black marble, overgrown by wildflowers. He tried to brush the flowers away so he could read the name, but his efforts were in vain. He rested his elbows on his thighs, contemplating the headstone. He likely wouldn’t have one of those. Not in a public graveyard anyway. No body to bury underneath, for starters. His dates were also inexplicable, given that he was over nine hundred years old at the time of his death.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the protocol was for immortals, once they died. The word immortal doesn’t usually delineate death or an end of any sort. He knew about Lykon, of course. But neither Andy nor Quynh had ever gone into much detail about what had happened to him after that. He supposed they must’ve buried him where they could, much like himself.

Nicky wondered how long he’d be subjected to this limbo. He couldn’t imagine wandering around like this forever. Although, what did forever really mean? He was supposed to live forever, to love Joe forever, to be with him, well, _forever_.

Nicky shook his head, standing and brushing his hands on his jeans. He headed up the path towards the back door of the church; thankfully, Joe and Booker had left it open. The handle was broken and hanging off; it had likely required brute force to open it, and Nicky imagined that Booker was all too happy to deal it.

He stepped inside, noting that the church was exactly as they’d left it the last time they’d been there. The evening sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the pews and allowing dust motes the chance to dance through the air. It was strangely beautiful, in an eerie sort of sense, with its high ceilings, intricate woodwork, and cracks down every wall. A small smile pulled at the corner of Nicky’s mouth as he admired it, in all of its worn, amber glory.

His reverie was shattered, however, by the sound of a broken off sob from the back of the church. Nicky’s brow furrowed as he crossed the room with long, unsteady paces, towards the source of the sound. He headed into the back room – their living quarters, when they hid out here – and found Joe sitting on the couch, Booker perched beside him.

Joe’s head was bowed, cradled by his hands. His fingertips were wound tight in his hair, nails pressing crescents into his scalp. His knuckles were stained white with the pressure, and Nicky knew it had to hurt. He stood in the doorway, frozen, watching as Booker gently drew Joe’s hands away from his head, talking to him in low, hushed tones. They exchanged a few words here and there, quiet enough that Nicky could only catch snatches of what they were saying. That didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that Joe had someone that was there for him, in Nicky’s absence. Booker could fill at least a little of the cavern that now existed in Joe’s chest.

Nicky’s teeth pressed imprints into his lower lip. He felt the overwhelming urge to cry, although his physiology wouldn’t grant him the release. He crossed the room towards the couch, kneeling at the floor beside Joe’s feet. He reached out a hand, drawing it back just before it made contact with Joe’s knee. He wasn’t sure why he was trying; it wasn’t like his presence would be felt, anyway.

He knew this was difficult for Joe; beyond difficult, in all honesty. But he almost envied him, in a way. At least, for Joe, Nicky was _gone_.

Nicky was condemned to this life of inconstancy; of hovering over Joe’s shoulder; of aborted touches; of a longing that he felt so deep in his soul that it hurt, even though he _couldn’t_ hurt anymore. He was constantly faced with the reminder of his death, in Joe’s visceral grief. He had to stand by and watch while the love of his life was _hurting_ , and he could do nothing about it.

“ _Fuck_ this.” Nicky cried softly, pressing his face into his hands. No one was there to watch him fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tysm for reading! i hope the train dialogue read okay. i had to leave out most of the stuff nicky says in the film. it didn't feel right to give his words to someone else. hopefully it still flowed well enough!  
> joe calling booker 'seb' is my new fav thing. hope it's yours, too!


	3. three | i can't touch what i see

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii! i'm sorry for leaving this fic for so long but i've been busy with uni work and also with personal stuff!! hopefully will be back to more regular uploads now, though... anyway, happy valentine's day! this isn't exactly a fitting chapter for the day, but oh well... onwards!   
> title is from two ghosts by harry styles.

There wasn’t really much for Joe to do at the safehouse but wait. Booker was handling the technical side of things; he’d thrown himself into trying to find Copley, often squinting at his laptop into the early hours. Joe envied him the distraction. So far, he’d done little but sit on the sofa in front of the television, watching nothing at all.

Their third day at the safehouse began with sunlight; weak as it was in this part of the world it pushed its way through the clouds and the stained-glass windows, pouring colours onto the floor of the church. There were no windows in the back of the church, where their rooms were, but Joe hadn’t been spending much time in there anyway. Small as they were, they felt vast and empty without Nicky’s grounding presence. He’d taken instead to spending time in the main belly of the church, amongst the scattered pews. That was where he’d fallen asleep the night before, deep in mumbling prayer and spread out across a pew.

He woke to a shaft of sunlight spilling across his face, picking its way through his eyelashes. He frowned, shifting, and sat upright with a groan. A kaleidoscope of coloured light fell across his bare arms, and he turned his hand this way and that as he admired it. A blue-green shard landed in the palm of his hand, and he stopped for a moment. It reminded him of sea-glass, of Nicky’s eyes glittering in the water’s reflection, of Malta and a time when they were whole and hale.

Joe shook his head, his hand dropping to rest on his thigh. He wouldn’t allow himself to get tangled up in memories – not again. That was all he’d been doing for the last two days, and Booker, understanding though he was, must’ve been sick of it. He looked down at the shafts of sunlight now spilling across his boots and sighed, steeling himself before standing. He walked up the aisle towards the back rooms of the church and didn’t spare a backwards glance for the kaleidoscope he left behind on the floor.

Joe entered their quarters quietly, stepping into what was essentially the living room area and shutting the door to the main church behind him. Booker wasn’t yet awake; he lay on his back on one of the beds in the adjoining room, hands resting clasped on his stomach. His laptop sat on the bedside table; though the lid was open, the screen was dark.

Joe looked away, scanning the living room – or what counted as such. As they both noted previously, the place was in pretty good shape for having been untouched for so long. There was, however, a layer of dust on anything that they hadn’t bothered to clean up; Booker because he’d been busy tracking Copley, Joe because he’d been, well, indisposed. Joe chewed on the inside of his cheek as he surveyed the room, deciding that cleaning up would be the most productive use of his time. There was little else he could do, and he didn’t want to drown in his own memories again. He loved Nicky and he treasured the time they’d spent together like nothing else, but there was only so much nostalgia he could take before it became oppressive.

* * *

Nicky hovered in the corner of the room as Joe cleaned, gaze tracking his every move. He looked good – better than he had been, anyway – despite the fact that he’d slept on an uncomfortable wooden bench all night. Nicky had itched to fetch him a pillow and blanket, but his fingertips still glanced off surfaces uselessly.

He’d sat vigil over Joe, cross legged on the stone floor by his head. Even when darkness fell, he remained. There was little Nicky could do in the grand scheme of things, should any harm come to Joe, but he felt better having him in his sights, difficult as it was to be so close and yet so far away.

Joe had been cleaning for only a short while when Booker stirred, sitting up with a groan and running his hands through his hair.

“Sleep well?” Joe asked, glancing over at Booker from where he stood as he wiped down the dining table.

“No.” Booker grunted in response, rubbing his fingertips over the trackpad on his laptop. He tutted when the screen remained dull, leaning over and rummaging around in his bag for the charger.

“Over here, Book,” Joe reminded him, pointing to where the cable was already plugged into the wall. “Table’s clean so you can sit here, if you want.” He offered, running the cloth in his hand around the edge of the table once before stepping back with a vague flourish.

Booker snorted, standing up and stretching before grabbing his laptop and heading over to the table. “Alright, domestic goddess,” He winked as he passed Joe, dropping into the chair and plugging the charging cable in. “Any chance of coffee?” He asked, looking over his shoulder and fluttering his eyelashes, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he did so.

Joe rolled his eyes, snapping the cloth at Booker even as he went over to the kitchenette, turning the charger plug on as he passed. Nicky watched Joe for a moment before turning his attention towards Booker. The man looked tired – exhausted, actually – with dark bags beneath his eyes. From what Nicky had seen, hunting for Copley was really taking it out of him.

Booker had adjusted well to the technological demands of every era. Nicky watched as his laptop booted up, Booker’s fingertips flying across the keys as he inserted his password. It opened to a patchwork of windows all half-open; an email inbox, a scary looking screen filled with code that Nicky couldn’t comprehend, and what looked like CCTV footage. Booker sighed, settling in for another day of surveillance that would hopefully prove more fruitful than the last two. He muttered quietly to himself, inaudible to Nicky as he bent close to the screen.

“You’re going to strain your eyes.” Joe chastised him gently, setting a steaming cup of coffee at Booker’s elbow. Booker glanced up, smiling his thanks before turning his attention back to his laptop.

“I appreciate your concern, Joe, but I don’t think that’s much of a problem for me, is it?”

Joe chuckled, patting Booker on the back as he headed over to the sofa, sights set on tidying the coffee table and the magazines strewn across it. “Touché, my friend. Touché.”

Joe tucked the cloth into his back pocket, perching on the edge of the sofa as he flicked through the magazines on the table. They had been accumulated over a number of years and a number of stays here: their varying covers and styles were indicative of that. Joe gathered a few onto his lap, leaning back on the couch and flicking through them absently, stopping every so often to read an article that interested him.

Nicky watched him, from his position at the table with Booker. Joe looked calm – exhausted, but calm – and almost relaxed. It was a stark difference from the way he had looked over the last few days; drawn and devastated. The atmosphere in the room was overwhelmingly subdued for once, accompanied by the clicking of Booker’s keys and the soft sound of Joe flicking through the magazines. Nicky allowed it to lull him, not quite into sleep but into a state of relaxation that he supposed constituted sleep for him now. He let his chin rest on his palm, his eyelids gently fluttering closed.

Nicky wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, but when he next opened his eyes Booker was nowhere to be found. His laptop was still open, code fluttering across the screen angrily. His coffee was half finished and no doubt cold by now, but still sat on the table. There was no telling how long he’d been away. Nicky hadn’t even heard him leave.

Joe had since tidied the coffee table, clearing away the old magazines after having perused the ones that still held some residual interest. He was sitting on the sofa now, a collection of weapons clustered at his side. Nicky recognised them as the ones that usually sat by the doorway; a mismatched collection that they’d scraped together over the years. One of them even belonged to Quynh; a sword with an intricately detailed handle that Andy had kept and never once used.

Nicky stood from his spot at the table, crossing the room to perch on the arm of the sofa beside Joe. He chewed on his lip as he noticed the sword that Joe was currently holding; his own, the one he’d had in South Sudan. Joe had one hand on the hilt, the other meticulously cleaning the blade with a cloth. A basin of soapy water sat at his foot, steam gently rising into the air.

As content as Nicky would’ve been to watch Joe for a while longer, he couldn’t help but be curious as to Booker’s whereabouts. He strained his ears, listening out for any tell-tale sounds. It didn’t seem as though Booker was anywhere in their living quarters. With one last lingering look at Joe, Nicky left the room. As he stepped out into the nave, he caught the low cadences of Booker’s voice from a storage room across the way. Frowning slightly and wondering why Booker couldn’t have taken this call in front of Joe, he crossed to room to get to a better vantage point.

The door to the storage room was shut, but that didn’t matter. Nicky pressed himself against it, ear close to the tiny gap between the door and the frame.

“…can’t you just take me? I don’t feel comfortable bringing them into this. Not after what happened to Nicky.”

Nicky’s ears pricked at the mention of his name. What was Booker talking about? Who was he talking to? Nicky cursed the fact that he couldn’t walk through walls or something actually useful.

“Fuck the deal!” Booker snapped, his voice clattering off the walls harshly. “Seriously, Copley. You haven’t seen Joe. He’s a mess. This would – this would kill him.” A snort followed by a sharp burst of humourless laughter. “Okay, fuck you. I’m serious. Can’t we just – am I not enough?”

Not enough? Not enough for what? Nicky cursed under his breath, straining to hear whatever the other person on the phone – Copley, he supposed – was saying. Booker was silent for a moment, presumably taking in whatever he was being told. He sighed, and Nicky could hear him rubbing a hand over his face.

“I just – fine. If you,” He paused, scuffing his boot against the concrete floor. “If you can guarantee me that this is going to help, then I’ll tell you where we are.”

Nicky’s eyes narrowed. Just what the fuck was Booker up to? Why was he colluding with Copley when the man himself had purposefully set them up? His actions were directly responsible for Nicky’s death. Booker _knew_ that.

“I know you’ve told me before, but – I just have to be sure I’m doing the right thing here,” Booker sighed again, and Nicky heard the sound of his fist glancing off the wall. “Fine. Andy will be back shortly, with the new one. I’ll – I’ll let you know when they arrive.”

Booker continued speaking, but Nicky had heard enough. He moved away from the door, leaving behind the low, steady rumble of Booker’s voice as he sold them out. His footsteps made no sound as he strode across the church, his hands curled into fists at his sides. There was nothing he could do. He had no way of warning Joe about what was going to happen. He was a sitting duck.

“Fuck!” He shouted, half-expecting to hear the word echo around the hollow church hall. Of course, there was no sound.

* * *

After Booker had told him that Andy and the new immortal would be arriving shortly, Joe had decided to try and put together some kind of meal. Cooking was definitely Nicky’s domain, but that wasn’t to say that Joe was bad at it, per se. He’d picked up enough skills over the years to throw something together. It wouldn’t be a culinary delight, but it would be enough.

Supplies were limited – fresh supplies less so, for obvious reasons – so Joe sent Booker out to one of the village shops while he cobbled together enough pots, bowls, and cutlery. The china was mismatched and chipped, but it would do. Joe laid the table while he waited for Booker to return, almost setting five places until a sharp pang of absence stayed his hand. He threw the extra silverware into a drawer and leaned against the stove, running a hand through his hair.

Booker arrived back before Joe could succumb to the pressure behind his eyelids, and he set about unpacking whatever produce he’d managed to find. Ripe tomatoes, leafy spinach and a bag of quinoa promised a salad, at least. There was some meat at the bottom of the bag that Booker had brought back, and Joe had found some spices that were miraculously still in date, so that was something.

He busied himself with preparing the meal – if it could even be called that – while Booker resumed his post at the table. The low light threw his face into shadow, cheekbones standing out in sharp relief. He was bowed over his laptop again, a scowl tugging at his eyebrows as he stabbed the keys. Joe was content with the relative silence – save for Booker’s keyboard mashing – and immersed himself in the rhythmic ritual of food preparation.

It took every fibre of his being to clench his teeth against the wave of memories threatening to engulf him. He focused on not burning the quinoa instead.

Andy arrived just as Joe was drizzling a dressing over the top of the salad, their newest member trailing in tow. Her name was Nile, and she gave Joe a tentative smile as she stepped into the kitchenette.

“Smells good.” She said by way of conversation, nodding towards the counter in front of Joe.

“It’s not bad, all things considered,” Joe shrugged, wiping his hands on the cloth hanging over his shoulder. “I’m not much of a cook, to be honest. That’s usually Nicky’s domain but, uh-” Joe trailed off, rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck. He swallowed, turning away towards the stove and busying himself with the chicken fillets sizzling in a flat pan.

“Come on, Nile. Let’s wash up.” Andy said quietly, touching her hand to Nile’s shoulder and directing her towards the bathroom. Nile went willingly, throwing a glance back over her shoulder as she went. Joe was bowed over the counter, both hands laid flat on either side of the stovetop. Booker was looking up at him from his spot at the table, every line of his face clearly drawn with concern. Nile saw him push his chair back from the table just before she and Andy rounded the corner, presumably getting up to comfort Joe.

“What was that about?” Nile asked, leaning against the bathroom doorframe as Andy washed her hands. The woman in question looked up, frowning slightly and tilting her head. “Back there, in the kitchen. Joe mentioned someone called Nicky and just, I don’t know, shut down.” Nile clarified, folding her arms across her chest.

Andy sighed softly, stepping aside to dry her hands and allow Nile the sink. “It’s not my story to tell. You’ll probably hear it later.” She said cryptically, moving past Nile and back towards the kitchen, towards the low hum of voices and the tantalising sizzle of whatever dinner was going to be.

Nile washed her hands quickly but efficiently, mulling over the way Joe’s expression had shuttered at mention of Nicky’s name. She couldn’t help but wonder who Nicky was, and why their name had elicited such a reaction from Joe. She supposed Andy was right and that she would find out over the course of the evening.

She headed back out into the main living area to find dinner on the table. Andy was nowhere to be seen, but Joe and Booker were already seated. Nile approached slowly, and Joe looked up at her with a watery smile. He gestured towards the kitchenette and the various bowls laid out on the counter. “Help yourself. Quinoa salad with chicken fillets. Not exactly the most adventurous but, uh,” Joe shrugged again. “I did what I could.”

Nile smiled her thanks, heading over to help herself. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until now, and her stomach grumbled as she layered salad and chicken onto her plate. She took one of the empty spots at the table, and Booker slid a glass of deep red liquid over to her as she sat down.

“Wine?” She asked, eyeing it almost cautiously.

“Can’t do anything to you anymore,” Booker shrugged, taking a sip from his own glass. “Might as well, right?”

Nile snorted softly, shrugging and lifting her glass. “Yeah, whatever.” She muttered, raising it to no one in particular in a mock cheer before taking a sip. It tasted decent enough, but she was no connoisseur. She lifted her fork and settled in to eat, the table bathed in silence save for the soft sounds of cutlery and chewing. Andy was still nowhere to be seen, although Nile thought she could hear a soft rustling coming from what she assumed was the bedroom.

After a few minutes of silence, Nile looked back and forth between Booker and Joe. The pair looked back at her, clearly waiting for her to say something. So she did.

“Are you good guys or bad guys?” She asked finally, taking a forkful of salad as she did so. Joe gave a short, sharp exhale, leaning back in his chair.

“Depends on the century.” He supplied helpfully, the corner of his mouth curving just a little. Nile raised an eyebrow, giving him a look that she hoped effectively communicated something like, ‘the fuck?’ “We fight for what we think is right.” He elaborated, as though that was supposed to be illuminating. Nile gave up on that line of questioning, looking up as Andy came through from the bedroom. Their eyes met for a moment before the other woman headed over to the counter and set about making herself a plate.

“How were you all in my dreams?” She asked instead, laying her fork on her plate and leaning her forearms on the table.

“We dream of each other,” Joe explained, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. “They stop when we meet.”

“Why?”

Joe took pause at that, his gaze flickering over to the empty chair on the other side of the table; not the one with a place laid for Andy, but the one that was wholly empty. He saw something there that Nile could not; something that upset him, that much was obvious. “Nicky believed it was because we were meant to find each other,” He said eventually, his voice trembling just a little. “Like destiny, y’know?”

“No, more like misery loves company.” Booker supplied, gesturing with his free hand as he did so. Joe sent him a small, watery smile, exhaling slightly. Nile looked away from them and over towards Andy, who stood with her back against the kitchen counter. She was engrossed in her bowl until she realised everyone had fallen quiet, and looked up to meet Nile’s questioning gaze.

“What he said.” She said around a mouthful of salad, gesturing towards Booker. The man in question huffed with laughter before lifting his glass to take a sip of wine.

“It used to take years to track a new one,” Joe explained, scraping his fork against the edge of his plate gently as he spoke. He looked up, nodding towards Booker. “Booker was the last. 1812.”

Nile blinked. “No way.”

Booker nodded as he took another sip, staring into the bottom of his glass. “Yeah, I died fighting with Napoleon.”

Nile’s gaze rested on him for a moment longer, before flickering back to Joe. “So, you’re even older than him.” She stated with a hint of questioning in her tone.

Joe nodded. “I, uh, I died in the Crusades.” He shrugged, averting his gaze back down to his plate. He didn’t seem like he wanted to elaborate on that, so Nile let him be. Andy passed a hand over Joe’s shoulders as she sat down, drinking her wine out of a chipped ceramic mug.

“You’re the oldest,” Nile said plainly, to which Andy nodded an affirmative. “How old are you?”

“Old.”

“ _How_ old?”

“Too old.”

Nile’s gaze travelled around the room, landing on each of them for a few moments before flickering onwards. “So we really never die?” She breathed, her voice laden with both awe and horror.

“Nothing that lives, lives forever.” Andy said quietly, reaching over to lay a hand on Joe’s forearm as she did so. She squeezed gently, almost apologetically. Nile frowned.

“But you said that we were immortal-”

“I know what I said. And we mostly are, but we can die. And two of us have.” Andy’s tone was gentle, and her grip on Joe’s arm remained as she spoke.

“Two?” Nile’s frown deepened. The definition of the word immortal seemed looser with every passing moment. “That sounds like-”

“Two too many.” Booker interrupted; his knuckles were white where his fingers were curled tight around his glass. His gaze was fixed on Joe, who in turn was staring down at his plate.

“One was someone I knew, a long time ago,” Andy supplied, stroking her thumb gently over Joe’s arm. The gesture was as much for him as it was for herself, at this point. “A warrior like us. One day your wounds just don’t close up anymore and we don’t know when, or why.”

Her words elicited a sound from Joe that shocked Nile into dropping her fork. It fell against the table with a clatter, and she scrambled to grab it. She opened her mouth to apologise but was cut off by what greeted her when she looked over at Joe.

His head was bowed, one hand pressed to his mouth and the other clutching at the front of his shirt. He was trembling, curling further in on himself with every passing second. Andy scooted her chair closer to his, laying a hand on his back and rubbing it up and down his spine gently. Her lips were pressed tight, and her lashes were wet with unshed tears.

Nile looked over at Booker helplessly. The man looked back at her with liquid eyes and lifted one shoulder in apology.

“I’m sorry, Nile,” Joe said after a few silent minutes. His voice was thick and hoarse, laden with the weight of tears he hadn’t shed and words he hadn’t said. “I’m so sorry. You – you shouldn’t have to see this.”

“It’s okay,” Nile said softly, shaking her head. “You don’t have to explain, really-”

Joe shook his head, rubbing his eyes fiercely as he looked up. “No. You deserve to know,” He said, sniffing as he sat up straight. Andy’s hand remained on his back, a comforting weight, and he threw her a grateful – albeit shuddering – smile. “I, uh, I said I died during the Crusades? It was Nicky that killed me. He and I killed each other many times,” Joe explained, wringing his hands together in his lap. “Nicky, he was one of us. He and I met at a time when we were supposed to be sworn enemies. We’d been taught to hate each other, but we fell in love anyway,” He chuckled humourlessly, gaze cast downwards. “We had one another for almost a thousand years. Too much time, probably, but we never tired of one another. He was my everything. My all and more. He died, a few days ago. Just, went down and didn’t get back up,” Joe shook his head, tears dripping down his cheeks and dissolving into his beard. “I, uh, haven’t quite got used to it yet.”

Nile had no idea how to process any of what Joe had said. A thousand years was a long, _long_ time to be with someone, only to have them ripped away from you in seconds. Nile knew that nothing she said would be of any worth – not right now, anyway – so she did all she could think of and leaned over to take Joe’s hand, giving it a squeeze. He looked up at her, surprised but grateful nonetheless, and smiled.

“Sorry,” Joe chuckled again, using his free hand to swipe at his damp cheeks. “That, uh, really brought the tone down.”

“You don’t say.” Booker quipped from across the table, his tone light. Joe rolled his eyes at the impish grin Booker threw him, wine glass resting against his bottom lip.

“C’mon,” Andy said, patting Joe’s back once before she moved away to grab a bottle of vodka from the middle of the table. “Eat and drink up, everyone. We’ll have to get some rest soon. Especially you,” She said to Nile, motioning across the table with the bottle. “You look exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Nile murmured, drawing away from Joe and scrubbing her face with her hands. She was having a hard time processing everything, from the ages of the people around her to the weight of the story that Joe had just shared. “Yeah, I really am.”

“Here,” Booker said, pushing his chair back and standing. “Come with me. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

Nile stood also, her chair scraping across the stone as she did so. “Thanks for dinner.” She said quietly, shooting Joe and Andy a small smile as she followed Booker through to the bedroom – or at least what qualified as such. The beds were small, made up with simple sheets and pillows, but Nile didn’t care. She’d slept in far worse places, after all.

“Here, take your pick. I’ll leave you to it.” Booker said, gesturing towards two beds on the right-hand side of the room. The ones on the left had clearly been slept on already; sheets slightly mussed, an open laptop sitting on one of them while a dog-eared book sat on the other. She smiled her thanks and sat on the edge of one of the beds as Booker headed back through to the main living area, footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

Nile didn’t know what else to do beyond sleep, at this point. She lay back against the sheets and tried to do just that.

* * *

After dinner, Andy and Booker had offered to clear the table since Joe had been the one to cook. He hadn’t argued with that, excusing himself to head outside for a while. He and Nicky had found a way up to a flat part of the roof years ago and had made a tradition of heading up there every time they used this particular safehouse.

Joe caught his hand on a stray nail as he climbed up, hissing through his teeth and withdrawing. He pressed the flat of his palm to his mouth, licking away the blood that dripped towards his wrist. He was far enough up now anyway and sat down on the roof’s edge. His feet dangled over the precipice, hitting against the roughcast as he swung them back and forth.

He removed his hand from his mouth, cradling it in his lap and watching as the wound – small, but deep enough – closed up before his very eyes. Flesh knitted back together as though sewn by the hand of God, closing up gradually and leaving no blemish. Joe rubbed a thumb over where the cut had been, smearing residual blood over his skin.

He sighed, turning his hand flat against his thigh. The sun had begun to set, streaking orange across the sky and throwing a warm amber glow across the graveyard beneath his feet. The stones were both illuminated and thrown into shadow, touched gently by the sun’s fingertips. A pool of lazy, hazy sunset spilled onto the roof, curling its way through Joe’s hair and around his limbs. He hung his head, letting his eyelids flutter closed for a moment.

If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine Nicky sitting by his side. Pressed close thigh to thigh, Nicky’s hand would slip around the back of Joe’s neck, fingertips skittering across his nape. He’d curl his fingers into Joe’s hair, tug lightly, and pull him close to press their mouths together. It was easy, this sort of languid affection. It spoke of a thousand years in one another’s orbit.

Joe’s head jerked up suddenly, the space beside him empty. He frowned; he could’ve sworn that he felt a presence beside him, soft breath fanning across his skin. He touched his fingertips to his cheek, turning around to verify that he was alone. He was – of course he was. He doubted the others even knew of the existence of this little haven above their heads.

He sighed, retracting his hand into his lap again and twisting his fingers together. He stayed there until the sun sank beneath the horizon, and dusk began to settle around the church. 

* * *

Nicky stayed up on the roof after Joe left, watching as pinpricks of light began to burst across the dark velvet sky. He’d thought, for a moment, that Joe could feel his presence beside him. He’d startled when Nicky had tried to rest his head on his shoulder, looking around with wild eyes as though looking for something.

Nicky had held his breath – or whatever constituted as such for him now – fingers tucked tightly into fists. He had allowed himself to hope, for just a moment, but Joe’s gaze had landed upon nothing. He had sighed, dejected, body curling in on itself.

He still sat like that now, resting his chin on his knees. There was only so much to look at out here, though. He should probably head inside shortly, although he supposed it didn’t matter much whether he did or not. It was better for him to at least be around people, he figured. For his own sanity – or whatever remained of it.

He went to stand when something caught his eye down below. The new immortal – Nile – stormed out of the church, Andy hot on her heels. Nile looked upset with tension written into every line of her body. Nicky turned away; it wasn’t his place to invade their privacy, despite the circumstances. He headed across the roof towards the path he and Joe had made years ago, when he spotted something at the back of the church.

Fuck.

A group, dressed in dark tactical gear, were heading for the back entrance. They were tucked low, skirting around the edge of the building. Nicky only saw them thanks to his high vantage point, otherwise they would’ve been hidden from view.

Copley must’ve sent them, after finding out the group’s location from Booker.

Nicky looked over his shoulder. Nile and Andy were still engaged in conversation, standing a distance away from the church. God, if only he could do something that would alert them to the situation; throw a rock, make a noise, _anything_. But he was helpless.

He scrambled down towards the ground, needlessly mindful of the nail Joe had cut himself on earlier, and hurried inside. Copley’s team were ahead of him, clustered around the door to the living area that he knew housed Joe and Booker. He could hear the sound of the television, accompanied by the low hum of conversation. His nails dug into his palms as the team broke the door down, throwing a grenade inside that exploded and filled the room with thick gas.

A commotion ensued, one that made Nicky squeeze his eyes shut. He was shaking, his blood a cocktail of fear, anger, and betrayal. When he opened his eyes again, Joe was being dragged out of door; his body was limp, his shirt smeared with blood. The sight ripped an involuntary growl from Nicky’s throat, and he lunged at the closest man to no avail. His hands slipped right through, finding purchase on nothing despite the sheer will with which he had moved.

He could do nothing but follow as the men dragged Joe out to an armoured van, throwing him inside carelessly. “Be fucking careful!” Nicky barked, climbing inside the van just before the doors were slammed shut. Joe’s hands were cuffed, his body curled up on the floor.

He wasn’t breathing – not yet, anyway – and for one painful moment Nicky found himself longing for reunion.

**Author's Note:**

> if there are any glaring inaccuracies here, please let me know and i will right them!


End file.
